


Give Generously

by imbrem_aureum



Series: Daring Donations [1]
Category: Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Belly Full of Pee, Belly Kink, Bladder Control, Desperation, Doctor/Patient, Hospitals, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Omorashi, Pissing on Request, Prostate Examinations, Prostate Massage, Urination, Urine Donations, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29858877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrem_aureum/pseuds/imbrem_aureum
Summary: Grimshaw is either a pervert, a hypochondriac, or just plain weird. Perhaps it’s a mix of all three. He shouldn’t indulge him, but what else is there to do around here?
Relationships: Mr. Grimshaw/Dr. Samson
Series: Daring Donations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195259
Kudos: 32





	Give Generously

**Author's Note:**

> This fic series is based entirely on a 2-minute Flying Circus sketch "[Blood Donor](https://montypython.net/scripts/blood-donor.php)" (Series 3, Episode 13 "Grandstand", about 16.30mins in.) You absolutely don't need to know it if you're just here for the kink - (Hi, if you are!) The characters aren't named in the episode (though they are in scripts and stuff), but John Cleese plays the doctor and Eric Idle plays the hopeful donor who wants to give urine instead of blood. 
> 
> I _love_ that there's already fic for these two characters on AO3! Here's some more ;)

There’s about an hour to go until Samson’s next break. He avoids looking at the clock above the queue. The fact they’ve come to donate at all is a miracle; he doesn’t want to put them off by checking the time every few minutes. 

Christ, the job’s monotonous though. _Good morning, sir. Here to donate today? Queue here please. Yes, it is a long line isn’t it._ And so on, and so on, ad nauseam. 

The senior doctors shove a clipboard in his hand to make their newest junior look official, but all Samson writes on it is the number of visitors. It’s busywork. As if the hospital doesn’t have a better use for him. Eight years of training and he’s counting men who come through one door and leave through another. This country. 

He draws stick figures in the margins, the clipboard making it look like he’s doing something important. Chance would be a fine thing. If someone queueing wears a hat, a stick figure gets one. If someone’s wearing driving gloves, you can bet a stick figure does too. He really doesn’t have anything better to do, and it’s a damn shame.

A touch on his shoulder alerts him to someone not queueing. He’s a small, slim man, anxious looking. Twitchy. Some of them are in here. They want to do a good turn, but they’re scared of the needle and even more scared of admitting it. Those sorts want their worries soothed by someone who does this sort of thing every day. Someone like Samson. Well, he’s not here to baby people, certainly not full-grown men. 

“Join the queue with the others please,” Samson says. He gestures to the line of men trailing the corridor with his pen, and the man doesn’t even look.

“I don’t want to give blood.”

Is he lost, then? Looking for a loved one? Does he require directions to A&E? 

“Then how may I help you, sir?”

The man steps closer. Too close. He’s smartly dressed in a long coat, shirt and tie, hair combed neatly and parted in the centre. He doesn’t appear to be a threat, even as he’s reaching up to squeeze his fist around Samson’s arm and leaning close to whisper, “I want to donate urine.” His fingers dig into Samson’s white sleeve as he adds, “Desperately.” 

Freeing himself from the man’s grasp, he marks this latest visitor on his clipboard with a firm stroke of his pencil. “Is this a joke, sir?”

“No.” And he looks appalled by the suggestion. “I really want to donate it.” 

“Well, we don’t take urine donations I’m afraid. There’s a restroom down this way, however.” He gestures in the direction of the gents, turning away. “Take a right, then—” The man pulls him back by his sleeve. A persistent little fellow, isn’t he.

“All I need is one of those little things to do some urine in.” He demonstrates the pot’s size with two fingers. It’s in the right area. “The round pot with the white lid. I’ll leave it in the bathroom if you like, then be on my way.”

Just what does he say to that? ‘No’, obviously, but what on God’s earth possesses a man to make such an absurd request? While he’d quite like this fellow to go away, there’s also nothing more interesting to do than stand counting visitors. He’ll entertain this a while. 

“Mr?”

“Grimshaw.” He plants his feet together and smiles as though giving his name will result in anything other than a politer form of address. 

“Mr Grimshaw. I cannot permit you to leave a urine sample as we do not require them.” Two people enter behind him, so Samson adds two more lines to his tally. “If you’re going to waste my time,”

“I’m not a time waster. If you give me the little thing,” —he demonstrates with his fingers again— “I’ll be out of your hair. Promise.” His eyes are wide, pleading, and there’s something so appallingly pathetic about him that Samson can’t help pitying the poor fellow. Morbid curiosity, he supposes—and you’ve got to have a bit of that to stay in this profession. This man might be mad, might take his pot of urine and start splashing it about the hospital. Though, he might also just be lonely and looking for something to do. He knows the feeling.

“You’re sure you don’t want to give blood?”

“Yes. Just urine, please.” 

Samson sighs. “Very well, then. Wait here a moment.” 

There’s an examination room a few doors down, one of those catchall spaces any medical staff can use if a situation calls for it. This one’s mostly for mishaps with blood taking. It’s a shame those errors are the more interesting parts of this shift. A blood vessel burst under the skin, someone fainting, allergic reactions to sticking plaster. It happens. Not often, but all the usual supplies are here for when it does. 

He opens the drawers of the room’s supplies trolley one by one, each housing items in individual wrappers and packets, and not well labelled either. Syringes, dressings, bayonets, and ah, here we are, sample containers. Just for good measure, he scribbles GRIMSHAW on the label and takes it out to where the man’s waiting. 

“Oh, thank you, doctor!” Grimshaw says, eyes lighting up like he’s won the lottery. “I won’t let you down. I’ll give you the best sample you’ve ever received! The bathroom is…?”

“Down to the right. Then third door on the left.”

Grimshaw takes his arm again, gently, but he’s short enough that he has to tug his sleeve to bring him to his level. “Thank you again.” He says it under his breath, like Samson’s just done him a favour. And he has, really. “It means a lot.” 

“You’re welcome. Good day, Mr Grimshaw.” 

Back to the sheep, uh, men. 

In they traipse, slow plodding pairs of feet after slow plodding pairs of feet, bored, arms folded, yawning. They might as well be sheep, for counting them is enough to put any man into a slumber. And there’s a new one, sporting loud, American-style cowboy boots with thick rubber heels. That’s one stick figure fashionably shod indeed.

“Psst! Doctor?” 

Grimshaw’s hovering at the end of the corridor, head poking around the corner. If he doesn’t have any trousers on… Panic averted, he’s fully clothed. He also has the pot in his hand, lid on, nothing inside. 

“Do you by chance have one of those bigger ones? You know, glass ones? Like they have on wards?”

Does he mean… “A collection bottle?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” 

“What’s wrong with the one I gave you?” 

“It’s uh… too small.” He shifts on his feet like he’s uncomfortable. Physically uncomfortable that is; this conversation’s been uncomfortable in other, less tangible ways since it began. 

“We only require twenty millilitres.” And what is he saying? They don’t require anything. 

“I’ve quite a lot to donate you see.” 

Samson draws a slow breath and taps his pencil eraser against his chin. He’s losing his patience, and there’s something suspicious about this whole charade. “Look, it isn’t normal to give someone a collection bottle for a sample.”

“Please. I promise I’ll stop disturbing you if you just—”

He throws up his hands. “Fine.” If it’ll get him to go away… “I’ll fetch you a bottle.” 

A bottle is a short, brisk walk to the nearest ward away. Their supplies cupboard isn’t an unusual thing for a junior to pop into, even if he’s not on shift there. 

This one houses a line of sterilised bottles on a shelf just inside the door, positioned so for emergencies he supposes. Each is glass, a handle on one side, and about the size of a milk bottle. Their thin fluting shape balloons at the base for collections of larger quantity. These are for men in recovery who can’t get out of bed, or those who need their micturate measured to the millilitre. They are not for strange men who wish to donate the wrong fluids at a blood bank. Well, they are now. 

Grimshaw is so delighted by the sight of the bottle he brings his hands together as though in prayer. Samson’s surprised he doesn’t drop to his knees there in the corridor and start kissing his feet. It’s like he’s found the holy grail, and instead of drinking from it, he’s— Good god, he better not drink from it. 

“You will be careful, won’t you?” Samson asks, not letting the thing go just yet. If anyone sees… 

“I’ll be careful, Doctor. Very careful.” He reaches for it, fingers hovering, licking his lips, and Samson can’t help but hand it to him. It’d feel cruel not to at this point.

“Just leave it on the sink,” he calls out, as Grimshaw sprints to the bathroom again in a flash of coattails.

The queue hasn’t moved much. There’s one more person behind the boots with the rubber heel, so Samson marks another on his tally. Fifty-seven. Not bad going for a Thursday. 

Good manners be damned, he looks at the clock. Fifteen minutes have passed in a blink. All that nonsense with Grimshaw made time fly. It’s a shame it’s over really. 

“I can’t go.” Grimshaw’s voice, and not too distressed, just stating fact. Samson turns to find him standing in the middle of the corridor, bottle in hand. 

“That is not a problem, Mr Grimshaw. As I said, we do not need your donation.” He neglects to add, _I was only humouring you to pass the time._

“Can you pretend you need it?”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’ll make it easier for me to go.” 

Samson almost smiles. This man is quite mad, though he can’t find one reason why he should call security on him. He looks almost endearing standing there, knuckles white around the bottle, cheeks flushed. Perhaps he’s sick. Samson is a doctor after all. He should ask him some questions. 

“Can I take your date of birth?” he asks. He flips the first page of his tally to reveal a blank page beneath. It’ll look official to Grimshaw, even if it’s pure curiosity on Samson’s part. 

“Twenty-ninth of March, nineteen— Wait, why’re you asking that?” 

Samson scribbles the incomplete date down. “Then, perhaps we could start with the first line of your address?”

“Hey, hold on. Why do you want to know?”

“Why do you want to donate urine, Mr Grimshaw?” And the only word that comes to mind is ‘touché.’ 

Grimshaw’s gaze falls to his shoes. “All I want you to do is tell me you need my donation. I’m not asking much.” 

And what the hell. If it’ll get him off his case and give him a story to tell the others. “Mr Grimshaw,” he says flatly. “We at Saint Bartholomew’s are in desperate need of your urine donation. Please give generously. . . Good enough?” 

Grimshaw sprints to the bathroom again. 

He returns less than a minute later, hardly time to unbutton his fly. 

Samson gives him a once over, waiting for him to say something. When he doesn’t, he asks, “Would you like some water?”

“Oh, yes please.” 

Grimshaw’s holding the bottle, so Samson fills one of the dispenser’s paper cups for him. The water bottle bubbles as it releases a thin stream into the cup, and the sight has Grimshaw shuddering.

“I hear running the tap helps,” Samson says, passing him the drink. “The sound encourages the flow.”

“Really?” Grimshaw’s mouth is open, his cheeks even more flushed. “Do you have any more tips?” 

Samson shrugs. “Think of rivers, babbling brooks?” 

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.” He downs the cup’s contents and presses it into Samson’s hand before rushing off again. 

As he’s tossing the cup into the bin, another lost-looking man approaches. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing anything a margin stick man doesn’t already have. 

“Is this the queue for blood donation?” the man asks, and as he does, he clocks the sign above the door reading BLOOD DONATIONS, THIS WAY. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, Doctor. This the queue here?” He points at it, and Samson nods. He’s had this exact one-sided conversation at least twenty times today already. 

“Doctor,” Grimshaw says, tugging on his sleeve. “I think there might be… something wrong.” He hasn’t had _this_ conversation before, and he probably never will again. 

“Surely not,” he says, hopeful his sarcasm lands. Grimshaw doesn’t blink.

“Will you come and have a look?” 

Is it the lab coat, Samson wonders? The clipboard? His height, which has everyone and their mother quipping that he should come and change their lightbulbs? Whatever it is, something is drawing this man to him like a magnet. He’s reading between the lines now. Grimshaw is either a pervert, a hypochondriac, or just plain weird. Perhaps it’s a mix of all three. He shouldn’t indulge him, but what else is there to do around here?

“If you require an examination, there is room just down here, Mr Grimshaw.” He walks to it, knowing Grimshaw will follow.

He’s not entering a bathroom with this man. That would be harder to explain than why he’s got someone who hasn’t donated in the room reserved for donors, and that’s without mentioning the collection bottle. 

Drawing back the room’s white curtain, he gestures Grimshaw to the examination bench, a strip of blue tissue rolled across it. After Grimshaw removes his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair, he comes to sit, having to lift himself up on his arms to do so. His legs dangle a little. Samson pulls the curtain across to give them both privacy, enclosing them in a few square meters of clean tile and bleached cotton. 

Holding his clipboard against his chest, he asks, “Now, what seems to be the matter?” This is the crux of it, where he’ll answer the gameshow-esque question: pervert, hypochondriac, or nutjob. 

“I don’t know, Doctor. I think you should examine me.” 

It’s crossing into pervert territory, isn’t it?

“Which particular area of your anatomy requires examination?”

The man’s flush is back, pink blossoming across high cheekbones and into the roots of his hair. That could mean—

“My tummy.” He averts his gaze, bites the tip of his finger. “It’s quite painful.” 

Is this… a ploy to get medical help without paying? Has this poor man spent all this time acting so strangely to get someone to look at him? The National Health Service waiting times are long, granted, but not long enough to warrant this, surely? Perhaps he doesn’t have a GP. Perhaps he’s homeless and merely washes up well. 

“Your tummy?” Samson asks, borrowing his patient’s terminology to avoid further embarrassment. When Grimshaw nods, he adds, “And how long has it been hurting?”

“Since I haven’t been able to go.” 

Samson lays his clipboard down. “I can do a basic examination, but I won’t be able to diagnose anything. You’d have to make a proper appointment for that.” 

“I understand.” 

“Lift your shirt please.”

When he does, it’s obvious what the problem is. Grimshaw’s bladder is full. Very full. His stomach is bloated, distended into what must be a rather uncomfortable curve. Of course, there’s a possibility it’s something else. A tumour perhaps, or trapped wind. Doesn’t seem likely, though.

“Did you have anything to drink before you came here today?”

“Yes. Lots of water. That’s why I was so desperate for this.” He lifts the bottle that’s still gripped firm in his hand, that he hasn’t let out of his sight since Samson gave it to him.

“May I feel?” 

Grimshaw’s flush is in full force now. His eyes flutter closed, his fingers gripping tighter at the bottle’s glass. He nods slowly, yielding to the offer like it’s a difficult decision. 

“Lie back for me please.”

He doesn’t bother with gloves. The man appears clean, his stomach pale and unmottled, a neat line of wispy hair trailing from his navel down. He doesn’t have an appendix scar, but it’s not that. He’d be howling if it were that. When he presses a palm to Grimshaw’s swollen belly, the man shudders. His inward gasp could signify pain, so he asks. 

“Painful?”

“A little.” 

“I’ll need to push a little harder. Is that all right?”

“Yes, Doctor.” His finger’s in his mouth again, teeth pressing into it softly. 

Palpating the smooth curve of the man’s abdomen, he finds the expected resistance of a large volume of liquid. There’s the shape of his bladder beneath the skin, the slightly springy texture he’d expect to the surrounding flesh. Grimshaw trembles, a whimper escaping his lips that has Samson whispering an apology and an, “Almost finished.”

There’s another whimper when he presses the cold circle of his stethoscope against Grimshaw’s stomach just above his belt, hears the unmistakably aqueous sound of a full bladder that he hasn’t heard since his training. 

“You said you couldn’t go, in the bathroom?” 

Grimshaw shakes his head. “No. I’m too nervous.”

“You should try again. You must be uncomfortable.” 

“I… I don’t think I’ll be able to go without your help.”

Samson sighs. There is most definitely something bizarre going on here, and he’s most definitely being taken for a ride, but he must remember his Hippocratic oath. The man is clearly in some discomfort, and he’s asking for medical assistance. Who is he to turn him away?

“My help as in, encouragement you mean?” 

Grimshaw nods. “I’m all tense now. I’m feeling all this… pressure.” After he sits himself up on the edge of the examination bench, shirt righted and legs hanging over the side, he looks up at him with soft, kind eyes. “Please help me, Doctor.” 

He can’t believe he’s saying this but, “It’ll have to be in here. I won’t be seen with you in the gents.” 

Sliding off the bench, Grimshaw seems even smaller than before. He presses the bottle into Samson’s hand and begins unbuttoning his fly with trembling fingers. Their eyes meet as he undoes that last button, leaving his belt fastened. He parts the material and slides himself through the gap. 

“I’m very grateful,” he whispers, and as he says it, he grips Samson’s sleeve again. 

Samson clears his throat. “May I?” He nudges the bottle close to where the man hangs free through his fly. Grimshaw doesn’t object, so he angles the glass and eases the flaccid tip of his cock into the neck, raising it carefully until he’s safely inside. 

“Close your eyes,” Samson says quietly, hoping no one will overhear. They’re far enough from the queue and the nurse’s station to talk, perhaps louder than this in fact, but this is a special circumstance and not something he wants broadcast. “Forget you’re here,” is his next request. When Grimshaw’s eyes close, he encourages him with a gentle, “That’s it. Just relax, and let it come.” 

When nothing happens, he remembers what Grimshaw asked of him out in the corridor. For some reason, he’d wanted him to tell him how much his donation was needed, how helpful it would be. While it’s a downright lie, Samson can work with that if it’ll help the man relax.

“We need your donation, Mr Grimshaw,” he says, voice low. He bends down to speak into his ear, feels the man’s hips shift forward ever so slightly, his cock dipping further into the bottle. “Any generous donation would be greatly appreciated.” 

It’s barely louder than a whisper, but Grimshaw manages a strained, “Thank you, Doctor.” He’s practically clinging to Samson’s white coat. Yet, still, not a drop. 

“Try not to think about it. Just let it flow, easy as anything.” 

The only reason he doesn’t step back when Grimshaw’s forehead drops against his chest is because he has the man’s cock, effectively, in his hand. He doesn’t want to cause him any further embarrassment, so he holds the bottle a little closer to ensure whatever comes forth—and soon, hopefully—won’t spill. The glass chinks against the silver buttons of his fly, and it must be cold against his intimates. Perhaps that’s why Grimshaw’s shuddering, panting fast and shallow until his breath seeps a warm patch into Samson’s lab coat. 

“Relax,” Samson tells him again, in as placating a voice as possible. “Take deep breaths for me. In—” he inhales, “and out.” 

“Oh, God…” Grimshaw tips his head back, eyes screwed shut. His hand is a vice at Samson’s arm, but he works those deep breaths through his teeth as Samson repeats the mantra, in, and out, in, and out, breathing with him. Grimshaw’s breaths flood hot over his face, and it’s not unpleasant. 

“There’s no rush. Take your time.” 

“You really need my donation, don’t you?” Grimshaw asks, eyes still closed. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his jaw hanging slack.

“Very much. Anything you can give.” 

Samson leans back a little to make sure everything’s okay down there. Condensation’s gathered around the bottle’s neck from the heat of Grimshaw’s bare skin. He’s still in place, positioned well to avoid spillages. A spurt takes him by surprise while he’s looking, a small stream of amber gushing out into the bottom of the bottle along with a desperate, almost blissful whine into his ear.

“That’s it now,” he says, still watching. It stops as fast as it started, but it’s something. “Can you give me any more?” 

As though from the direction alone, Grimshaw releases another sharp stream, his cock tensing inside the glass. He’s almost hanging from his sleeve now, fingertips digging in. Samson feels the delayed gratification in sympathy. These small issues must be a blessed relief, and if the sounds he’s making are anything to go by, they are. 

“Am I . . . doing good . . . Doctor?” His words are interrupted by further spurts, Grimshaw leaning into him again, tilting his head so his temple rests against his shoulder.

“You’re doing wonderfully.” Another dribble. Then another. “That’s it, Mr Grimshaw. There we are.”

He’s a man obsessed now, watching Grimshaw’s sporadic stream become a steady one, the glass filling up, and up. He’s peeing freely, panting through it, pressing his face into Samson’s throat, moaning unabashed. The glass is warm to the touch now, the level rising steadily as the trickling sound of his release fills the small space.

“Just look how much you’re giving us,” Samson says, hopeful the mild praise will keep the flow from breaking.

Grimshaw whines as it keeps on coming. He’s almost collapsed, holding himself together with Samson’s sleeve as those last few drips release and… oh. Oh dear. Mr Grimshaw is getting an erection. (He’s not sure he can blame him under these circumstances, but he must put a stop to this, immediately.)

Being especially careful not to drag the glass over what will be a very sensitive predicament, Samson slides the bottle away, depositing it on the side. It’s almost full to the top, but he has no time to be impressed by how much the man had in him and how relatively clear and healthy its colouring is. There’s another more pressing matter to attend to. 

He’s careful to keep his eyes on his patient’s when he says, “I’m afraid we don’t need any further samples today.” And damn it, he can’t stop his eyes flitting down to find that Grimshaw is fully hard now, his cock swelling and standing straight against his belt buckle.

“Just a little bit?” Grimshaw asks, not bothering to hide his arousal. “To test?”

“No, but you may relieve your immediate predicament, Mr Grimshaw. I wouldn’t be as unkind to send you out immediately.” He won’t be as unkind because he feels slightly to blame for this. If he’d kept the bottle more stationary perhaps… But there’s no use imposing blame. That is not a doctor’s way.

He reaches through the curtain, pulls open that same trolley drawer, and retrieves another of the white-lidded pots. Placing it on the examination bench, he tells Grimshaw, “I’ll be waiting outside. But it will be disposed of, do you hear?” He’s not encouraging this, won’t lower himself to pretending the hospital is in dire need of semen. Grimshaw’s alone on this one. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Grimshaw says, and Samson can’t deny the man looks mortified. People have apologised to him many times during his training, for getting blood on him, for coughing, for vomiting in his presence. He’s never responded to those apologies, but he will to this one. 

“Do not trouble yourself.” He pats the man’s shoulder lightly. “These things happen.” 

As he steps through the gap in the curtain, he quicky realises he can’t leave the man alone in here. Drawers full of supplies should not be left unattended. Not only that, if someone were to need use of the room and find… well, a _situation_ taking place behind the curtain that shouldn’t be, it would be almost impossible to explain away. So, he stands by the door pinned open by the chair, Grimshaw’s coat draped across it, and draws a new stick man in some vacant margin space. 

Behind the curtain, Grimshaw’s breaths are coming fast and sharp. It wouldn’t be so hard to listen to if he were unaware of what he was doing. Frustratingly, trying not to think about what he is in fact doing is a total failure. He can’t help wondering… Is he standing or sitting? Does he have the pot poised and ready? How might he work himself with his hand to get it over and done with swiftly?

Samson washes his hands at the sink as a distraction. Liquid soap, three pumps, the tap running. He watches the water run down the drain as he works the lather between his palms. A normal thing, this is. Doctors have sent thousands of patients into rooms to masturbate. The sweat prickling beneath his coat is only because this is his first time encountering such a thing. It was the same with his first injection, his first stitches. Practice makes perfect. 

Once he’s rinsed and dried his hands, his jaw tenses at a sound that wasn’t there before. It’s a slick, repetitive one, accompanied by the persistent jingling of Grimshaw’s fly, the buttons knocking together. It’s the unmistakable sound of a man masturbating. 

When Samson doesn’t think he can bear it any longer, it stops. 

“Doctor?” Grimshaw calls out, his voice feeble. His shadow against the white curtain is static, and the sounds have all but stopped.

“Yes?” When the word comes out in a croak, he clears his throat and repeats it. 

“I… I uh… I can’t…” 

How did he not see this coming?

“I only need a tiny bit of help,” Grimshaw adds, frantic. “I’m nearly there.” 

“I’ll call one of the nurses to administrate an internal—”

“No!” Grimshaw pokes his face through the gap in the curtain. Why is there something about this delicate, desperate little man that so pulls at Samson’s heart strings? Why does he feel this urge to help him? “I’m only comfortable with… your help.” 

Very well, then. 

He nods, once. A sharp, serious nod befitting the situation. This is a procedure to help a patient, nothing more. They’ll deal with this professionally and promptly, then Grimshaw can be on his way and Samson can return to his… oh, right: his dull, tedious, counting. 

“Take your trousers down and bend over the bench. I’ll be a moment.” 

“Oh, thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.” The curtain falls straight, and Samson nods again, reminding himself why he’s doing this. 

He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. Withdrawing a single latex glove from the dispenser, he slides it onto his right hand and snaps it in place halfway up his bare wrist. The drawer of supplies has a few suppositories among rolls of gauze and silver instruments he doesn’t need. What he does need is—ah, there it is. 

Squeezing a blob of cold, clear lubricant onto his gloved index finger, he rubs it along the length, then slides the tube into his pocket should more be required. It’s now or never. 

“May I enter?”

“Yes,” Grimshaw says, nervous, how he’d been when he first approached him in the corridor.

He’s done as Samson asked, adopting an appropriate position for a prostate exam, though this is not quite the same thing. Elbows on the bench, backside exposed, belted trousers and blue boxershorts around his ankles. Samson knows without looking that Grimshaw’s in a near-final state of arousal, but he looks regardless to be sure. The man’s cock stands erect before him, swollen, foreskin taut about the tip, balls pulled up tight. As he thought. There’s that prickling again, sweat gathering at the small of his back. He’ll make this quick. 

He steps behind Grimshaw and gently parts his buttocks with his ungloved hand, the action making the man shudder. He’s relatively hairless, giving him an easy view of his anus, a pink asterisk that puckers tight as he breathes hard. 

Usually, extra preparation is beneficial for those nervous about this procedure. Deep breathing and mental relaxation techniques, a squeeze of internal lubrication through a thin, disposable tube to ensure the digit’s entry is swift and painless. They haven’t time for that. 

“You’ll feel a little pinch,” Samson warns, pressing the tip of his finger to Grimshaw’s anus and gently rubbing the lubricant around it. “Take deep breaths and try to relax.” 

“I’ll try, Doctor.” He hisses a “Christ!” through his teeth as Samson pushes in past the muscle, stretching him. It squeezes about his finger, tight and unyielding to the intrusion. The remarkable heat of his body seeps through the latex.

“Deep breaths,” Samson instructs, and when Grimshaw does, he feels the slightest loosening around his finger. With a little more pressure, it eases in all the way. “Worst part’s over.” 

It has been a long while since he’s performed a prostate exam, though never for these reasons. He’s well versed in the theory of prostate orgasm, and while it’s a relatively outdated procedure in standard medical practice, it exists for a reason. He finds the gland easily, twisting his finger a degree so the pad nudges it. It’s engorged, ready for his direct stimulation. Grimshaw’s gasp precedes a guttural moan he immediately apologises for.

“Get the pot ready, please.” He doesn’t even know where it is, hadn’t thought of it until this moment. It’ll be needed very soon. Grimshaw reaches for it.

A gentle touch, an instructor once told him. The gland is delicate, and even light pressure can bring a man from flaccid to ejaculation in a moment. That’s the point here, so Samson massages a slow circle into it. 

“Good _god_ ,” Grimshaw whimpers, forehead dropping onto the bench. He grips the pot in a shaking hand, the lid unscrewed. Hopefully he won’t make too much of a mess.

The man has stamina, he’ll give him that. Samson’s traced two full circles around Grimshaw’s prostate, and all he’s done is bite his lip and cant his hips against the bench. He’s shaking from head to toe however, making the kind of bitten-back noises that have Samson’s toes curling in his shoes, though he’s not sure if that’s due to disgust or delight. The human body is quite a remarkable thing. 

“Are you quite comfortable?” He asks because there’s every chance his patient’s whimpers are from pain. 

“Y-y-yes, D-doc-tor,” Grimshaw manages. He turns his head on the bench, revealing a patch of dribble on blue tissue. “N-nearly, there—Oh!” 

Samson has opted for soft prodding instead, pressing the tip of his finger into the gland’s spongey form. It has spasms racking Grimshaw’s body, has him dragging the pot beneath his stomach in extreme urgency. His back passage shudders too, the muscle fluttering around Samson’s finger before the inevitable…

Grimshaw muffles the involuntary sound of his orgasm, the only noise he cannot stifle a grunted hum into his sleeve. The contractions of his muscles are almost painfully tight, and when he’s finished, Samson withdraws his finger with a slick pop, slides off the glove, and deposits it into the medical waste bin. 

“Better now?”

Grimshaw can’t answer. He’s collapsed over the bench, face down and breaths ragged, trousers pooled around his ankles. It’s quite a sight. 

It’s probably unusual to consider how easily someone might have his way with a man in such a vulnerable position as this, slide into that tight heat as payment for their good deeds. A lesser man might. A degenerate would. Samson will not. 

“I’ll leave you to clean up.”

He washes his hands again, returns the lubricant. It takes Grimshaw a few minutes before he emerges from behind the curtain, dressed, red faced, hands linked before him.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” he says quietly, picking up his coat. The strip of blue tissue is balled up beside a mostly empty specimen pot. Missed the target after all, then. “Thank you examining me, Doctor. I feel much better now. Did everything seem…” He raises his eyebrows as if Samson will catch his meaning.

“Seem what?”

“You know, was everything… working correctly?”

“You’d know that better than I, Mr Grimshaw.” 

He nods, drapes his coat over his arm. “Maybe I’ll see you again, then. You might need some more donations.” And with that, he’s out the door, vanishing like he’d been nothing more than an hallucination.

Madness must be contagious, because if another day of counting the queue awaits him, Samson thinks he might rather enjoy another irregular donation coming his way.


End file.
